


True Nightwings

by CityZenShark



Series: Readers of Nine [2]
Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, war orphan reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 06:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23966572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CityZenShark/pseuds/CityZenShark
Summary: Volfred reform and joined the new Nightwings from the start.It was Oralech who found the Reader.CHAPTER 3 PART 1 - UPDATED
Relationships: Oralech & The Reader (Pyre)
Series: Readers of Nine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818334
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a short post I found. The blogger discussed how story would go if the Reader serve the True Nightwings. I'm pretty sure it was in tumblr but anyways I lost the original post.

He was a feeble little thing. Lying weak on the shore of the Sandfolds like a battered ragdoll. The sight reminded him of his early days serving the front, passing through bombed homes and seeing a charred body clutching an ashen doll. This boy did not seem too old for that doll. The statement ached him.

He was younger than that Oldheart boy. His voice has yet to crack, not a sign of stubble for an adolescent, and his cries... His cries were too close to a child aged ten than fifteen.

Oralech's hate for the Commonwealth burned more. He craddled the boy carefully in his arms and rushed back to his Blackwagon. The moving shelter was fairly new with the smell of saw dust still stuffed in the air. There wasn't enough drive-imps to make a quick travel to Hollowroot. The boy won't survive long, not with those wounds. What had the nation driven by mercy had done to this _child_? Oralech bit back a flare of rage. The boy was already here. His life was on his hands now.

Iq'sa gave all help she could give. Her unique features made her faster and more nimble than most imps. Oralech told her fly to two certain exiles waiting for them at the edge of Downside Prairie and alert them. His clawed hands were too large for certain wounds. A small mistake and the boy's condition might turn for the worse. He cauterised the wounds, stopped the bleeding, gave him half of his water supply to make sure he stay hydrated until they leave this wretched place.

When the Blackwagon finally reached the edge, Gareph rushed to it right before it stopped. The young man had saved his life, and desired to heed whatever plans Oralech had in mind. Though the demon had doubts about that. A bog-crone, whom the savage refer to as 'Grandmother', seemed to force him to that. Not that it made anything different. Their skills were needed to save the boy.

They mend his bones, cleaned his deeper wounds, and began a delicate surgery to extract a metal shard from his abdomen. Oralech did the one part, holding the boy down in case he woke up mid-surgery. Fortunately, he didn't. Unfortunately, he lacked muscle response. Not a good sign. The boy slept for days. Sometimes he would stir and mutter words Oralech could not make out. Few times he would cry and his hands grasp the air. Oralech and Gareph took turns soothing him down, repositioning him so he wouldn't reopen the stitches.

Somewhere deep within him regretted rescuing the boy. He mentally stomp it away. He was a physician. The master-physician -- damn it! To turn himself away from an ailing body was the last thing he'd ever do. The boy was in his care now. He will let the boy go in Hollowroot once he can fend for himself.

When the boy woke, Oralech thought twice.

No, triple.

A thousand times sounded perfect.

The boy could hardly speak. Only broken words accompanied by wheezes. He often took deep breaths as if he had been under water. His voice was raspy but it failed to hide how young he was. He was not scared of Oralech. Not entirely. He was more curious of him, tilting his head side to side each time the demon appeared. He still cowed whenever Oralech attempted to get closer.

"Do you know where you are?"

"...Dow-n...?"

"Will you tell me your name? What were you called?"

"...Eee...Ri-z?"

He had experiences with soldiers who trouble speaking after a battle. One of them happened to escape from Harp capture. She spoke bit by bit. Then she went silent even after she had been discharged. However, this was different, no matter how familiar it felt to him.

_What happened to this boy?_

Oralech had a feeling that whatever happened to him before his sentencing, it wasn't enough in the eyes of the Commonwealth. Gareph and his grandmother informed that his bones seemed to be damaged longer than they seem. He may not walk any time soon.

"Yooo...u?"

"Hm?" Oralech snapped out from his thoughts. "What was that?"

The boy point a shaky finger at him. "Yoo-U... Name?"

"I am Oralech," he answered calmly. Oralech, former master-physician of the Commonwealth. Oralech the Traitor. Oralech, leader of the Nightwings. He loathed to say those titles.

"Orr-Rah?" The boy cocked his head. "Orrr-Ra-hee?"

"Oralech."

"Or-ral...?"

It's been years since he last treated a child. His skills on that have gotten rusty.

"O-ral-lech," he said slow and clear. "Try say it again. Slowly."

A moment passed before the boy spoke again. "Or-ral... Ora-ll... Orrr-al... Oral... Oral. Oral!"

Oralech stifled a smile. "Good. Now say my full name. Oral-lech."

"Oral..."

"-Lech."

"Oral."

"Oralech."

"Oral!" To the demon's surprise, the boy giggled. "Oral, Oral, Oral!" He giggled and giggled until he wheezed, bending over his bandaged front.

Oralech quickly went to him, patting him in the back and held his back straight. The boy tried to shake the demon away despite the coughing. When it was over, he retreated to the corner of his bunk, his enthusiasm replaced by fear. Oralech put his hands up and stepped back. The boy's gaze linger at him, bracing for a sudden movement.

They stayed that way for a moment until Gareph came back, holding a handful of fresh elixirs. Oralech gestured him to comfort the boy. The boy clutched the savage man's cloak, his wet eyes continue to stare at Oralech.

Oralech broke his gaze and went outside. Iq'sa immediately fluttered to him and landed on his shoulder. She wondered if the boy will get better.

He had doubts. The boy won't survive the Downside on his own. The wounds were deep. It was a miracle that he survived the trip downriver. Aside all that, can he read?

Oralech glanced at the Book of Rites cluttered at a corner of the lounge. _There's more time_ , he thought. He can wait.

He turned to the horizon where the corpse of Lord Gandroth towered.

That can wait.


	2. Metal and Papers

The boy was a curious thing. His eyes trailed anything that moves. From the band of criminals to drive-imps to wild birds perched on the windowsills. He'd stare at them for so long you might think his eyes would pop out. Few times he would trace his fingers in the air like an artist determining their next move at drawing.

The thing that got his attention most were the books.

Oralech didn't dare to bring one to him. He remembered full well what happens when a Reader opens the Book of Rites for the first time. It happened with Brighton. It happened with Volfred. Anger flared just thinking of those two. He'll get his hands on them.

But first, the boy. It wouldn't matter if he could really read or not. Not just yet. His health came first.

When the boy first saw the book, he reached out a hand to it. "Tha--Tha-t. That. Wan'na..." Oralech was outside when he heard his pleas. Gareph sat on the boy's bedside, saying that the books weren't safe (which were more or less true if they had a Beyonder Crystal).

The boy didn't take it as an answer. Oralech heard a crack and a loud thump. He went inside and found the savage man lying on the floor, clutching his nose.

"I wan'NA THAT!" the boy screamed at him.

Gareph looked like he wanted to yell back until he noticed Oralech standing in the common room doorway. He gave the demon a pleading look. The boy noticed him as well, his face reddening.

Oralech glanced at the book and back at the boy. "No."

The boy glared daggers.

"No," Oralech repeated with a firm tone. "You are not to touch the books." The trick when it comes to treat stubborn children: coax them until they calmed down. If they don't and then you can be stern. Forbid yourself from raising your voice. To Oralech, it was best to not let a child patient know why they must do as told -- as in the exact details. They'd find it hard to believe. Oralech learned that the hard way. It'd be more unbelievable if he told the boy immediately about the Rites.

The boy crossed his arms and turned to face the corner. Oralech hid the books under the steps between the lounge and the common room, hoping that the boy wouldn't find them.

He was wrong.

He didn't expect the boy was able climb down his bunk, let alone crawl especially with a healing abdomen. Everyone slept like logs later that night while old memories haunt Oralech in his sleep. His eyes flew open and saw the boy with a Book in hand.

"Put that down!" The boy slumped over the book before Oralech could grab it. And there he was, in the book of Rites. Iq'sa appeared on his left and Gareph on his right. The two were startled awake from their deep slumber.

He explained to them everything. Iq'sa may have witnessed a few Rites but she was clueless of the reason for their existence. The savage man quickly understood him, despite his drowsiness. Gareph wondered where the boy had gone.

"He is here," told Oralech. "He cannot join us. Not like this." Readers were the Rite conductors. They weren't meant to play in the field. Those who could were lucky. Incredibly lucky. Oralech hoped that the Voice was non-existent to them. Even the memory sparked old anger. He loathed to hear 'him' again.

After tutoring Iq'sa and Gareph, with the imp plunged in the opposing pyre, the Beyonders appeared. They were always easy to win against. The field vanished and they were back in the Blackwagon. Gareph groaned painfully from his bunk. Iq'sa fell from her nest like a fallen fruit with her eyes spinning in their sockets. Oralech, familar of the sensation, brushed it off without problem. The boy leaned heavily against Gareph's grandmother, trembling like a leaf. The Book of Rites lay forgotten by his feet. The bog-crone rub his back in circles and gave Oralech a sharp look.

"Ye better have a good explanation for thissss."

* * *

Days en route to Hollowroot, Oralech answered question after question involving the Rites. Though it became an interrogation whenever Gareph's grandmother spoke up. It took Oralech a good ounce from telling her to cease the questioning. She was merely concerned for the boy, and her grandson. He should have told her first-hand. She was not interested in freedom, rather she wanted an explanation why Witch Udmildhe joined the Rites when the ones who created it were opposed to the alien the witch worshiped.

The two agreed to confine the boy in the bunk area until the stitches sealed completely. He avoided the Books, fortunately, but he still craved for reading materials—let it be blank paper or carved wood. It was as if the boy was addicted to them. That gave Oralech a clue how the boy's literacy was caught. He still questioned how and where he learned to read for one so young.

_A question for another time._

Iq'sa was willing to be the boy's plaything thus hours she spent being ruffled and squished like dough. Eventually, the boy nicknamed her Sasa, much to the imp's delight. Gareph had the top priority of being the boy's main supervisor as he was the only other human beside him. The boy sheepishly rubbed the savage man's nose and muttered "Soo-rr-I..." The savage man easily forgave him and allowed the boy to call him Gary. The boy tried but "Gaelly" came out instead. He rarely talked to the crone, though, on one of the nights, he tried to get her attention by calling out "Nanna". She heeded his call on cue.

The boy still left Oralech out of his comfort zone, which was not a problem. The boy's literacy, this little band, Oralech's plan. They will be needed for an amount of time.

He must not let them be personal. Must not be close to them.

He would not let the past happen.

Not again.

They thought they may find suitable braces for the boy's legs at Hollowroot. If not, at least purchasing materials to make one. Unfortunately, there were issues. They were low on Sol, the artifacts they have cannot be bargain a high price, the brace must be metal (something exiles were extremely thrifty of). Gareph and his grandmother knew a smith who might cut down their usual pricing, though they must choose the precise lengths. They must bring the boy along.

Oralech was adamant of the idea. The bog-crone insisted, saying that the smith wouldn't welcome her again if they got the measurement wrong. "Thee shall carry the boy."

"Absolutely not. The boy stays in the wagon."

"The boy must know thissss place. He might be welcomed, moreover."

Oralech sensed she was biting back an insult. "Have Gareph carry him then."

"Rrrhhh... The boy is too old and too big for our grandson. And our grandson is taming imps for thee now. You will and mussst carry the child. End of discussion!" She slithered away.

Oralech sighed. The boy was still frightened of him – he cannot force progression. And yet, she was right. This was the Downside. The boy must pull his own weight eventually.

Oralech felt eyes boring on his back. He knew that the boy had been listening, who squeaked when he began to head for the Blackwagon. He found the boy dangling his feet from his bunk, pretending that he hadn't been eavesdropping. His duvet folded and tucked on his lap and under his elbow. The duvet was to make sure he won’t bend over her abdomen.

Oralech regard him gently. "I know you heard all that," The boy stared. "This place is Hollowroot. It is the closest thing to a town here in the Downside. You won't find many exiles elsewhere than here. We are to find braces for you, for your legs."

"My-ee... Lleg-s?"

"Yes. With braces, your legs will heal better and you may walk sooner. Do you understand?"

The boy kept staring for a moment. Oralech readied himself to explain again when he felt an intruding presence. Not in the Blackwagon. In his mind. The demon held his breath. The boy nodded, and the presence vanished.

Oralech stifled a sigh, "Good. I have to carry you to get there." He expected the boy to retreat deeper in his bunk at that. He didn’t. “May I come closer?"

The boy glanced sideways before agreeing. Soldiers sometimes go ballistic when a person they detest attempted to get their attention, especially after a fight. The boy was no soldier. Although, Oralech rather not take any chances.

The boy was young, he would heal.

The boy was up to a quarter of Oralech's height. Despite having regained bit of colour in his skin, he bears a child face still. He must be fourteen years old, at most. The Commonwealth enforced the youngest age of exile (for humans) was 17. That was on the year Oralech was exiled. They've cast down many who were younger—another reason to overthrow that ‘merciful’ of a nation.

Oralech slowly lifted the boy up with one arm. The boy staggered and tugged on the shawl resting over the demon's longer horns. Oralech warned, "Don't pull my horns." The boy flinched, moving his hands from the demon’s shoulders to his own chest.

“Do feel pain in your stomach?”

The boy answered quietly, “Nn… No-T mm-much.”

“Tell me if it does.” A request. The boy understood.

No more words exchanged as they exited the Blackwagon.

* * *

As expected, exiles in the encampment took notice of the boy. Many took a glance, briefly return to their work, and made a double check. A resting pack of curs eyed the boy in disbelief. A crazed wyrm-knight singing war songs abruptly shifted it to a broken lullaby. A pair of harps lazing on a roofing comment that the Commonwealth would finish off their own people before it could finish off theirs.

Neither Oralech or the boy spoke, nor did they look at the other in the eye. The boy hid his face deeper in his hood, struggling to ignore the stares. Oralech put a straight face through and through, trailing behind Gareph’s grandmother who was acting too casual for his liking.

The smith was a partly turned demon whose horns matched the size of her hands, yet her legs remained normal as far as they seem. She regarded them with a lazy, dramatic, slurry welcome.

For a split second, a distant sarcastic laughter came over Oralech’s mind.

For a split second, he remembered a fiery temper of a woman grown from a broken girl.

For a split second, he thought of … _her_.

For that split second, the horned woman saw the boy on his arm and squealed—snapping the demon out of his thoughts.

She went from being annoyed to cooing the boy and raving about justice back to back. The boy watched her in confusion. Oralech rose a brow. The bog-crone muttered a prayer (or a curse) under her breath. The woman agreed to their bargain for her metalwork in the end.

Oralech placed the boy down as the bog-crone and the horned woman discussed on metal types. The subject picked on another faraway memory. A memory Oralech desired to perish. A familiar voice from outside shook him free from it.

“I see the Nightwings again, I’ll show ‘em what Iggy can do.”

A large figure stride passed the tent they were in. Each step heavy and irate. Oralech didn’t need to look to confirm whom the voice belonged to. The crone and the smith were still on a debate _._ He cannot miss this chance.

“Boy,” Oralech whispered. The boy looked at him for the first time since they left the Blackwagon. “Stay here. I shall return soon.”

The boy cocked his head. He opened his mouth and shut it quickly. Again, Oralech felt his mind being intruded. He hastily emptied his thoughts.

He paid no heed to Gareph’s grandmother calling out to him as he trailed behind a certain red-skinned demon. Oralech recalled his mental note about him.

_Ignarius of the Tempers. Exiled fourteen years ago. Served the Tempers for nine. Brash, quick to anger, dislikes imps._

As a nomad, Ignarius was known for his brute strength and his infamous temper that lead him into exile. Hard to miss him with that pompadour and the tattoos, even after he had turned into a demon. Aside from such features, he was quite a lothario towards demons or horned humans that caught his eye.

Oralech stayed a good distant away from him as he followed the other demon until he reached his teammates waiting at the far edge of Hollowroot.

One of them was Pfrumta, a bog-crone who served the Tempers about twice longer than Ignarius. She often delivered the final dousing. A formidable opponent.

The other was a wyrm-knight. That one seemed new. From the scale and fin colours, the wyrm was female and young for her kind’s terms. For a triumvirate that frequently earned a place at Liberation Rite, she didn’t seem to show much physical strength. Nevertheless, the Tempers were not be underestimated.

Oralech was too far to hear their conversation. He managed to make out pieces their topic. Talismans, stardust, a blonde demon, training, another chance, liberation, Nightwings.

 _So… The Nightwings have returned. And already they stole someone’s freedom._ Oralech scoffed. _I should’ve known. The Sap has made his move._

Whilst Ignarius and the wyrm began chattering between themselves about Falcon Ron, Oralech headed back to the smith, half aware that Pfrumta was watching him warily.

He returned to find the smith pinching the boy’s nose. She put an unsettling wicked smile while the boy struggled to pull away, tears sheen his eyes. Oralech felt his hair raising on its edge. His claws grasped the horned woman’s forearm before she realised him looming over her. The boy pulled himself free and fell off his seat. Oralech’s free arm swiftly braced the boy’s back, hoisted him, and shoved the woman away. The boy put his hood on and pressed his face in the demon’s shoulder.

A growl escaped his throat. The woman stepped back and caressed her arm where his claws left a mark. “Where is the crone with us?”

“’Thought she went looking for you beside looking for some useless papers,” she sneered. “I agreed to have my metals being bought more than half the price and this is how you repay me? By breaking my arm?”

If magic were gifted to demons, Oralech ought to burn her and her workshop whole. “Touch him again and your hands shall be bent beyond repair.” Her eyes widen in fear. _Good._ “Give us the metals.”

The horned woman sneered. She stomped into her tent and brought out a bundle of thin metals wrapped on soiled cloth and worn ropes. She threw it at the demon’s feet.

“Don’t come back!” She spat at the ground.

“Gladly.” Oralech took the bundle and left. By ten strides, her tent blended in with all other tents.

He turned to the boy in his arm. “Did she hurt you?” he asked.

The boy gave a surprised look before shaking his head.

“What did she do?” _If she does anything to a_ child _of all things…_

The boy shook his head again. “Shhhh-ee only pin’Ched mah face,” He crunched his face at each word as though his mouth prevented him from talking. “I-Eee don’ like her.”

Oralech couldn’t agree more. _Does the crone know?_ He’ll speak to her after this.

* * *

After finding Gareph’s grandmother and informed her of the smith—who placed a parcel on the bundle of metals in the demon’s hold and slithered through the encampment in fury—Oralech and the boy returned to the Blackwagon.

They found a dishevelled Gareph preparing broth. Iq’sa and a mass cluster of drive-imps made a commotion underneath the wagon. The savage man stated they have enough drive-imps for fast travelling now. Oralech thanked him. By noon, the exiles filled their bellies and went about their work. Oralech began constructing the braces. Gareph took the boy indoors with the parcel in hand. Iq’sa settled herself on one of Oralech’s longer horns for some minutes before suddenly zooming into the Blackwagon. The demon’s mind was preoccupied to notice.

The bog-crone arrived in a foul mood few hours later. She grunted that she and the smith were no longer on terms. Satisfaction filled within Oralech but he didn’t show. She berated to herself for not knowing about the smith’s crime.

Sometimes it was easy to forget how every soul here in the Downside were criminals one way or another. It was a miracle anybody survived their first day. The longest survivors grew accustomed with half-filled meals and limited protection. Their personalities turned grim. The comfortable life they had was a mere distant memory.

Oralech’s old life was so far behind him, he reminisced little of the times before he became Chief-Physician. He had no siblings. His parents died when he was young, thus memories regarding them gone hazy. He remembered passing the military training as a field medic. Then became a chief medical officer and then was called to the Commonwealth capital to be the master-physician. Long he desired to leave his profession. But his entirety was bound to aid the sick and wounded—no matter if they’re ally of foe. The Commonwealth didn’t understand that neither did they care.

If he had been freed that night, would they truly welcome him? Would they offer him a place among the First Veil? Would they demand him to serve the frontlines the rest of his life? Or perhaps disguising his execution behind their pardon?

He will have to see for himself. If the Archjustice decided to welcome him in person, Oralech would bury his claws into that damning crown and skull even if it’s the last thing he’ll do.

The bog-crone slunk to the Blackwagon. She halted at the entrance and was suddenly on the ground. Oralech stood up in alarm. She made a rhythmic hysteric noise, her serpentines bobbing up and down. Oralech was one foot away from her to realise she was laughing. He looked through the doorway.

“What are you doing?”

In the centre of the lounge was Gareph fully clad in raiment. He sat crossed legged with his back straight and arms bent halfway on each side. The Book of Rites in one hand and Iq’sa on the other. The imp puffed out her furs similar to when she fended off howlers. Except, this time, she was puffing with pleasure. The boy sat on the steps to common room with a wooden board propped on the duvet cushioning his belly. He had a stick in one hand and scratching it on the board. For once, he didn’t look up at Oralech’s voice.

“Kraaa-hoor-hum!” Iq’sa chirped. She and Gareph were posing.

“What?”

“We’re posing a portrait, sir.” Gareph answered.

Oralech rose his brows. “A portrait...”

“Yes, sir.”

Iq’sa concurred.

The boy looked up from the board frowning. He pressed a finger on his lips, “Sshhh!” The two fixed their composure. He turned to Oralech as if expecting him to leave.

The demon blinked. If his literacy were sharp or if his hands even liked the sensation of writing, he might have listed down every oddest thing he had seen exiles do. He might as well start with this one.

The boy grumbled. Oralech turned his heel to resume working on the braces. Then the boy called to him. “Oral!”

“Yes?”

The boy took a deep breath. “I-eeh am Rez.”

All exiles (plus an imp) turned to the boy. The bog-crone stopped laughing. Oralech blinked once more. “Say it again.”

“My n-NAME-muh … isss … Rez,” he said. His word remain broken but he was confident. He repeated his name in a sing-song tone and return to the board in his hand. “Rez, Rez, Rez, Rez, Rez.”

Oralech put a reminder for himself not to get close with anybody. This band, the boy’s literacy – they’ll be meaningless once his plan is proceed. He didn’t imagine the reminder itself will be meaningless.

Watching the boy Rez sketching, gladness bloomed in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a bummer that history just forgets Oralech if he remained in the Downside. I mean his actions probably sparked up the revolution and they just forget about him???? Not cool.
> 
> About 'To Fly This Prison', I'll update it around next month. Real life schedule is strangling me and it's likely I'll finish 'True Nightwings' first before continuing my other fic.
> 
> Take care during these troubled times! Thank you for reading! :D


	3. Opal-lech - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More adventures, bonding time, and meeting triumvirates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, unfortunately, took way too long a time to finish this and there is a lot I have to revise. So I force myself to split the chapter in parts because chapter 3 is 13,000 words (and counting). I might have to do the same to future chapters.
> 
> I'm very sorry for the long wait.
> 
> Also, I put my interpretations on Triumvirates' characteristics in this series.
> 
> Enjoy!

**1**

If Oralech was ever the one to jump into conclusions, assuming that the boy—Rez—will be an easy patient, it was too soon a sentiment.

He was as unexpected as children can be, melting the hearts of adults and being as innocent as ever. That can turn south in a blink. In Rez’s case, it came like lightning during a sunny day. He was a handful.

Oralech should have seen it coming. After two moons, the surgical wound scarred over and his breathing levelled, he ventured the entirety of the Blackwagon like a raving howler. One moment you see him picking at the tiniest holes he found in the floor; the next he was halfway in the drive-imps’ centrifuge. And that was only the bottom of the list.

Rez found the braces understandingly uncomfortable. Oralech told him that he must wear them at least half of a whole day and the boy was bemused. He reminded him further that his legs would heal better with them. Immediately, the boy attempted to take off the braces by breaking open the bolts – which he fortunately failed.

Next came the food. Downside cuisine were far from normal. Even the most accustomed exile could only stomach small portions per meal. Before, Rez was able to keep the food in with little problem. Abruptly, on one afternoon, he stared at his bowl of usual slit porridge and poured the contents to the ground. It took stern warnings from all three adults and a worried imp to make him eat.

Then there were the books. Oralech thought the boy was clear that he was not to be attached to the Book of Rites. The papers the bog-crone bought became a new book. However, the mystical books remained a target. He had gotten over his fear of them. Rez would open one while everyone else was preoccupied. The peeking became reading, the reading became entertaining, and the entertainment lead to him hooked until dead of night. The bog-crone had to craft an aromatic candle to lull the boy to sleep.

On top of the list was the boy’s temper tantrum. His legs have yet to heal completely though he craved to walk. He refused to be lifted and punch whoever asked thrice. Thus, Gareph was full of bruises. Rez would sometimes squish Iq’sa so hard she had to bear her fangs to make him stop. He behaved around Oralech and the crone, but neither were spared from his outbursts (where he would yank the cloth around the demon’s horns or ‘misplacing’ the crone’s tools while looking at her straight in the eye).

Maybe ‘a handful’ was a tame statement.

On the bright side, the boy has more courage and energy than he appeared to be. He didn’t think twice on scavenging. He tamed a ravaging drive-imp without imp food. He could withstand a bog-crone’s touch as easy as blinking. Sometimes he would tattle about his activities or his daydreams; lightening the mood as if his tantrums never happen.

Rez had a spectrum that was neither common nor rare. Moon-touched folk were often associated with it, though that doesn’t mean normal humans and other races cannot have it. Some didn’t show while others were obvious. Oralech had encountered several soldiers like Rez. None of them were easy. At least Rez’s kicking were not as strong as theirs, not that he should keep it a habit.

There was nothing wrong with him or anybody like him. They did not ask to be the way they were. They did not understand why they act such a way, either. The Commonwealth pretended that the spectrum was some form of viral disease. It never was.

There was a Cur with the spectrum from Oralech’s old neighbourhood who was exiled simply for asking the wrong person for directions. It was his daily routine—his way of being sociable. Oralech tried to find him on his first years in the Downside but to no avail. Doubtful he lasted long on his own.

Rez won’t last on his own. That was the conclusion.

The Downside was already deadly to the fully abled; worse for the disabled. To leave the boy behind and having a chance to see his body lying lifeless on the earth, Oralech would rather die than to have it happen.

* * *

**2**

They camped near the Spring of Jomuer where the corpse of Bialanthius provided shade under the curl of its stinger. The boy, no longer fuming from the heat, busied himself by brushing the drive-imps. The crone took a nap while her Savage grandson tinkered with the Blackwagon’s wheels after one of them were loose. Iq’sa left in search for food. Oralech stood a distance away from the spring, his mind elsewhere.

 _This was the place I joined the Nightwings,_ he thought. _How strange I used to find tranquillity around titanic corpses._

He had not thought about the Scribes for a while. He used to respect them, seeing them as divine beings. What a fool he was. The Scribes were mere mortal. They were as dead as the Titans they slew. Mortal were bound to mistakes. The Scribes’ mistake were the Rites, and the damage lasted far longer than their time alive. ‘ _Devine’ my—_

“WOW-HO! Bi’G dung!”

Surprise wiped away the tranquil. Oralech looked on his side and found the boy there marvelling the Titan. _When did he get here?_ He didn’t hear a sound of the boy’s crutches nor the creaks of his braces. “How did you get here?”

Rez remained fixated at the Titan. “I-ee walk-ked,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You aren’t supposed to walk.”

“Bu’ht I wan’Na.”

“That doesn’t mean you must, Rez.”

Rez whined, “Bu-h I Emm borrrrrr-edd! You won’ lemme Hav the magic books-Sss! Nanna sleepin’, Gaelly iz busy. Sasa iz not aroun’. I jus’ wan’Na walk!”

As much as Oralech wanted to cut him off mid-sentenced, he mustn’t. People with spectrum hated being interrupted. Rez could not control his mood especially under the heat of the Valley.

“Not an excuse,” said Oralech firmly, crossing his arms. “You want to walk better? You rest. You want to run – then do as I say.”

Rez gave him a side-eye and puffed his cheeks. A minute passed and he spoke up, pointing a finger at the dead Titan. “D’you kno—wu tha’ bi’G thing iz du’Ng?”

 _Dung?_ That cannot be possible. Nothing can excrete even a quarter of the size. _Unless—No! Don’t even think about it._ “Looks like a boulder.”

“Nu-uh,” the boy shook his head. “It’s dung’Uh.”

“How are you sure?”

“In za magic Book-kuh,” The boy’s eyes gleaming under the sun. “Unnn’der-King Ores said Jomu-yer gat’her lots and lots o beetle dun-G and CRUSH—” he motioned his hands as though he were holding an invisible ball and slammed it to his feet. “—Ban-Tiyuss to death!”

Oralech corrected him, “Bialanthius.” Impressive... It took Brighton a year to understand that part of the Book. It took two Rite cycles for Volfred. Today should mark Rez’s third moon in exile. He excelled better than them already. Pride bloomed within the demon; he quickly shook free from it.

“Will you return to the wagon now?”

“No.”

Oralech held the urge to sigh and roll his eyes altogether. “Rez, please, just go. Help Gareph with the wheel or something.”

“Wha’ abou-Tt you? Or-Rah staring at tha giant score-pan for ‘an hour.”

“Scorpion. And it wasn’t even that long. I’m here to collect herbs. Now go. I won’t move until you leave.”

“Geh, okay!” Rez puffed his face and stomped away.

The sun began to slip from its peak when Oralech returned to the Blackwagon. Silence greeted him sans Gareph’s hammering outside. _Something’s missing._ He scanned the makeshift home.

Beddings, check.

Water barrels, check.

Food stock, check.

Sol, tucked safely in the coffer.

Drive-imps, check.

Their sigil, unmoving on the lounge floor.

Bog-crone sleeping on top of it.

Book of Rites, check.

The boy’s things, check—

The boy.

“Where is Rez?” asked Oralech aloud.

The hammering stopped. “Huh?”

“Where is Rez? I told him to help you.”

A pregnant pause. “I haven’t seen him. I thought he’s still with you, sir.”

The answer was enough to make his heart leap to his mouth.

* * *

Rez _was_ hobbling back to the Blackwagon, wishing there was someone who actually let him do things. He didn’t get Oral, or Gary, or Sassa, or Nanna. They wouldn’t let him walk but he felt fine. His ankles sting a bit but still fine.

This valley was hot. Not as bad as the place where Oral found him. Still hot. Why can’t they stay in the Prairie? The place has trees, lots of fruits, other people, and pools for baths. Why must they move around?

Oh, right! Jomuer Many-Mane said to always keep moving. Oral didn’t like Jomuer or any of his friends. So why did he follow what he said?

Weird…

From the corner of his eye, Rez saw a pack of curs sprinting around a flat opening in circles. They have the weirdest, funny looking hairline. The one with black fur had his (hers?) styled in red with a fish fin on top of the head and wore a collar with metal skulls hanging on each side. Rez recognised the style but what were they called? Spunk? Funks?

“FASTER, YA LOT!! THE STARS AIN’T SHINING FOR SLOWPOKES!” the cur with the red fin-hair yelled. The voice was definitely male. The other curs howled back at him.

“On it, boss!!”

“Not tired yet, boss!”

“The stars will be in our fangs, boss!”

“They better!” the fin-haired cackled. “NOW STICK YOUR HEAD BACK TO YOUR PAWS!!”

“AYE, BARKER!”

“FOR THE DISSIDENTS!”

“YAAARRGH!!!”

Too loud. These curs were too loud… but they look fun. Running in circles like there’s no tomorrow. Could Rez join them? Maybe not. Curs use swear words a lot. Rez hated swear words. They made Mama angry.

The sun continued to beat down. Rez felt his skin turning crispy like cookies. He sighed. _I_ _miss cookies… I need shade,_ he thought. He took a last glance at the curs and turned away. Rez hobbled for another five minutes and – lo and behold – a Blackwagon! Except … this one is orange and black. His was supposed to be blue and red.

“Uhh…” Did he take a wrong turn? That’s not right. He was sure he took the right one. Did he take a left? No, he took a straight, the huge score-pan with the giant dung was on his left. Then he turned right, passed three bone-shaped rocks and saw the curs. He took another right…

Hang on… Was right left?

Or was left right?

Rez’s hands flew to his hair. “Aaaaarrrrrghhh…!” _I forgot which is left and right! Again!_ He cupped his face and observe his surroundings, the air growing hotter by the second.

 _Where do I go? Where do I go?_ There was only sand and bone-rocks. They look different but same at once! Did that make sense? _I don’t know! Maybe! What did Mama say if this happens?_

_“Find a safe place before you find help.”_

Yes, yes! Mama did that when she got lost! But … that was Up. This was Down. Nowhere was safe. The owners in the orange wagon might help, but will they? What if they were like the horned lady back in the Prairie? What if they were less friendly than her? What if they hurt him like the people from Up?

One way to find out.

He called out to the orange Blackwagon. “Helloooo? An-one in’N?”

No answer.

“Hey-llooooo?”

His voice echoed with the wind.

Rez carefully approached the entrance door. He knocked twice, and still no reply. _Maybe they’re sleeping?_ If he knocked the door with a fist, maybe he’ll wake them up. Mama said to not be rude… But it’s so hot…

_Sorry, Mama._

Rez pound on the door BANG! –and fell flat on his face, half his body through the doorway. The wagon’s indoor shade relieved his skin but the creaking, swinging door was ticking him off.

“Huh-rrgggh?!” _Why didn’t they lock the door? I just growled like Nanna._ He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry. He just fell like the trap part on a mouse trap in someone’s wagon. Was there anybody in here? Did they saw him? Will they laugh or be angry? The stillness in the wagon answered him – nobody was around.

Rez huffed and gather to his feet, clenching his teeth when the braces around his ankles screeched. Tears formed in his eyes. _Why did I leave Oral?_ He should have listened to him, and Nanna, and Gary, and Sassa. _I should wait outside._

Rez wiped his sleeve over her eyes as he slowly collected himself. He rubbed his eyes, adjusting to the dim wagon. A fracture of sunlight shone on a particular object on a shelf on a wall across Rez.

A spine of a book.

_A book!_

Rez gasped and crawled towards it without warning himself. The leg braces whined at the movement. Rez ignored them. All he cared were the book before him. His face was inches away when he realised there was another beside it. And another above it.

Rows of books all various in size and thickness filled the bottom half of the wall. From the spines, they were all hardcovers. He touched one with a symbol on the bottom of row. It was engraved, which meant that these books were _printed_!

By a _stamping press_!!

Rez squealed, his heart leapt to the sky, “EEEEIIIIK!!”

His hands grabbed a small sized book with a fire symbol on the spine. It contained a tale of a prince seeking a lost ancient being to regain his honour which he eventually joined hands with to defeat his tyrannical lord father who conquered the world in oppression.

He pulled out a second book, a thick medium sized one with a picture of a glittering egg. He thought the egg was a water droplet, at first, until he reached the near middle where it revealed to be the offspring of the king of dragons. The story mentioned something he did not like – hating another race just because they knew only one aspect of them.

So Rez closed it when nearing the end and pulled a third book, a large thick one with various of symbols. This one had many stories in them. None were directly related to the other, but they were all interesting in their own way. Bummer ending on the second story. Boo…!

 _They could make it different,_ he thought as he crossed his arms over the book. _They don’t have to make him die. Did Writer forget about the plant in the first story? The plant that can heal every hurt. Are the stories connected? Is the Writer someone else?_

Rex delved deeper into his own fantasy, not realising the sky preparing for evening, not realizing the sunray now passing directly through the door and windows instead of the holes on the roof. He put his head over his hands as his eyelids slowly droop down.

_Jara can go straight to him. He’ll comfort him, say he is sorry, and he will stay with him until it’s over. Or he could go in his place and do all those stuffs himself. His friend won’t have to be hurt again. He can rest. Yes, he can! Jara is too mean to say that to his friend. Friends don’t do that! Mama will hate it if I do that. Mama, Machi, Ani, Fika, everyone!_

_“Oi...”_

_Is Mama still up there? Is she okay? Is she hurt? She must be crying right now since I’m down here… Maybe those people are nicer to her? They have to be—they have to! Mama is not well…_

_“Oi.”_

_Is Mama healthy up there, Saint Triesta? Is she sleeping right now? Does she miss me? Will you tell her that Rez can take care of himself? He has friends down here. Oral, Gary, Sassa, Nanna. They’re doctors. They can take care of me, I’m sure!_

_“Oi!”_

_I want more friends. You said exile with friends are better than being alone. I believe you. I want more friends. But exiles are so mean…_

“OI!”

“WAAAAHHHH!!!”

Rez screamed. He shot up from the book and crawled quickly to a stack of crates in a corner and huddled behind them. He fell asleep! The wagon’s owners are back! They sound angry. _What do I do?!_

“You got some guts breaking into my Blackwagon. I’d probably give you a talk if you hadn’t scream like a possessed wyrm-knight!”

That voice… Rez recognised that voice. It’s the Cur with the red fish-fin for hairline! This was his Blackwagon? The books were his? He did not sound nice. Not at all.

“What are you—a dwarf? Ain’t seen a two-legger your size before. How about ya come out here the same way ya got in here. I’d like to see your face.”

What would Machi do? ...That’s right! She put her brave mask, look right into the other Matri’s face, and … play cool? _Was that what sissy said?_ Oral did the same before with that weird lady in the Prairie. Except, he was always scary. Rez knew he was nowhere near as scary as Oral. Though he could try… maybe not.

Rez took a deep breath and slowly breathe out. He carefully peaked from the crates and was met by the very pack of Curs with the weird hairlines. What came right after were the Curs stunned faces.

“What in the bloody loving life?” one blurted out. “A kid.”

The second Cur spoke, “No duh, Scarly.”

“He looks small…” a third gasped quietly.

The fifth mumbled, “I don’t even know what to say….”

Rez slid out of from behind the crates. He looked hard at each of them. Four including Fish-fin Hair looked male. The remaining two looked female. Their hairlines made it hard to tell. Fish-fin Hair stood at all fours in front of him. His eyes furrowed in anger or something else, Rez couldn’t tell.

He gave a wave. “Hey-lo… Em sorry for intrud-Ding. It waz hot an’ the door waz not locked,” he gulped. “I got…uhhh…guh…Lost.”

A moment passed. Sweat began to stick badly under Rez’s clothes. He wanted to change. He wanted to go back to his own Blackwagon. Can these Curs stop staring like he’s an alien? What’s an alien?

Fish-fin Hair spoke, “Lost, huh?”

Rez nodded.

“Lost for how long?”

How long? Well… The sky used to be bright blue when he walked around. But the sun was not exactly straight above him. Since the sky looked orange-y now, which means he must have been gone for—

“Hey, don’t ya hear what boss said?” said one of the male Curs, surprising Rez. _No, no, no. I was calculating!_

Another male Cur, who looked older than the others, turned to the first Cur. “Hush up, Snarlo. The kid’s spooked.”

“Shouldn’t be that long to give a simple answer.”

“Still, just hush up, will you?”

“Come on, chum. Too scared to answer?”

_I’m not, I’m not! You interrupted me!_

“Snarlo,” one of the two female Curs nudged him. “knock it off.”

“Give him some space,” said the other female Cur.

“The kid’s an exile,” replied Snarlo. “What’s he gonna expect? Happy hooligans?”

Rez’s body began to tremble. _Oh no… What if these curs are worse than the horned lady in the Prairie?_ His muscles threatened to move—to stomp, to punch, to run out the wagon. _I want my friends!_

Then Fish-fin Hair spoke up in a commanding tone. “Either you keep him from talking, Snarlo, or waste our time. So, snap your mouth shut! The kid says when he’ll say it.”

Snarlo stepped back and gave Rez a glare. The boy trembled more.

“Hey, kid.” Rez turned to Fish-fin Hair. “I’ll just assume you’ve been here for hours. How about you tell us where your mates are.”

Rez blinked. “…Mate’Suh?”

“Friends, companions or whatever. There is no way anybody with legs like yours can travel around by themselves. Tell us where and we’ll take you there.”

…Huh… Fish-fin Hair was nice. He looked unfriendly especially with the metal skulls and spikes on his collar. Rez peered deeper into the Cur… _He’s not lying. He’ll take me back to Oral!_

Rez took a deep breath. “Mah friends are at’Tuh Bantiyus’s tail.”

A beat passed. The Curs crooked their heads to the side.

“Bantiyus? What the heck is Bantiyus?”

“You mean where.”

“Do you mean Bialanthius, chum?” asked the oldest Cur.

Rez lit up, nodding vigorously. “Yah! Tha’ gia’N score-pan!”

“Scorpion.”

“Score-pan.”

“Near the Spring of Jomuer then.” Fish-fin Hair said. “It ain’t far from here but that’s quite a walk. Gotta say I’m impressed you climbed by all those dunes on your own, chum.”

 _Dunes?_ “No dune.”

“What?”

“I-ee did no’t climb any d’Une. Jus pass a lot o’ rocks.”

Another beat passed with Fish-fin and the Curs looking at him in disbelief. Fish-fin muttered something under his breath before shouting, “Scarly, get the ropes and that big bark we have! Charson, you’re coming with me! The rest of you, guard the wagon and make sure to fix that lock this time!”

“Yes, boss!” Just like that, the Curs went scurrying around.

The oldest Cur, Charson, Rez was sure, guide him to wait at the entrance while Fish-fin and Scarly were making something with a large piece of wood and some ropes on the sand. The splashes of orange in the sky growing smaller. It really getting late… _Oral, Gary, Sassa and Nanna is going to be mad at me…_

“What’s your name, chum?” asked Charson with a soft look that didn’t match with his appearance. He gave him a cup of water and Rez immediately drank it. Rez liked him already.

“I am-mm Rez,” he answered happily.

Charson smiled and introduced himself properly. He told Rez his friends’ names. The female Curs, Marla and Scarly; the mean one, Snarlo; the quiet one Walfie; and the leader, Fish-fin Hair—eh no—Barker Ashpaws.

 _I can stop calling him Fish-fin Hair,_ thought Rez. “Why nice to’h me?” he blurted out.

Barker answered without looking up from the wood and ropes. “I got an acquaintance like you in the Commonwealth. People always look down on him but his hunting rivalled mine. Folks like you are a bunch. Too bad the Commonwealth and the Archjustice aren’t fond of you.”

Archjustice. That name… Sissy and Machi always mentioned it as if they ate a bug just to say it. Rez wanted to ask more but the thing Barker and Scarly worked on was finished. It’s some sort of sled.

“Climb aboard, chum. Let’s get you there before howlers think we taste good.”

* * *

For hours, Oralech dreaded that he’d find the boy hungry, parched, sunburnt, or worse—dead. Howlers thrive in Jomuer Valley. As the day became evening, a stubborn part of his mind kept picturing a small body torn into shreds. He stomped it away for the umpteenth time.

 _Get it together,_ he thought. _The boy is alive. I_ will _find him alive._

Oralech was sure he had traversed Gluehive wholly now. The bog-dwelling two went to search in Fallflat while Iq’sa guard the Blackwagon, in case the boy returned on his own. He really hoped for the unusual imp to fly to him and say Rez had come back. He stopped hoping that as he almost hallucinated it.

Except, once sunlight disappeared entirely, she really did flew toward him.

“Kree-kee kikikiki!” Rez had returned. He got help from two Curs.

Oralech held back his sigh of relief as he kept pace with the imp back to the Blackwagon. Gareph and the bog-crone were already there.

So was the boy!

… With Barker Ashpaws on his side.

The demon’s relief was blown away like a loose leaf in the wind. Barker Ashpaws has a knickknack with deals. The famous anarchist who has no heart for all but himself. Exiles join the Rites to be free while he joined for the thrill of it. The boy ended up with him? This will not bode well.

“Hi, Ori, Gaelly, Nanna, Sassa…” Waved Rez timidly.

The bog-crone slithered towards him in a blink and pulled him into a tight hug, her wrists bent outward so she doesn’t accidentally paralyse him. “Thee a young worry-maker. Almost gave us a ssssstroke.”

“Wha’h?!”

“We mean not literally, boy.” She said but kept him in her embrace.

Oralech almost rush to Rez’s direction but his attention was on the sled-like thing that was merely a large bark with ropes tied around it. Had Barker and his teammate pulled the boy the whole way here?

“Hey.” Barker caught Oralech’s attention, frustrated or annoyed, or both. “Your kid wandered to my wagon without crossing the dunes. And you have no idea, don’t you? Heh! He’s lucky enough to end up with me. Watch your kid better, ya hear me?”

 _I am not here to be taught by the likes of you._ Oralech almost said his thoughts. He gave the gangly Cur a sharp look who returned it at him.

Barker’s teammate approached. “Well, now, we brought him back. That’s good enough for me.”

Barker scoffed. “You lot better watch over him. I don’t need to tell you how many exiles might want the kid for themselves.”

The demon suddenly recalled the horned woman in Hollowroot. That damn smile she wore… He’d love to tear it a hundred times over. He saw Rez paled at the Cur’s words, clutching the bog-crone’s cover tightly.

“We get it, Ashpaws.” Oralech said sharply. “My thanks for bringing him back.”

“Oursssss, too.” Said the bog-crone.

“Thank you, Barker.” Gareph followed.

“San’k you…” Rez said meekly.

Barker gave his signature sneer. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’m not leaving without payment. Just kidding!” He cackled at their brief surprise; his companion didn’t follow and rose a brow at him. The demon expected the remaining members of the Dissidents to be Ashpaws’s copies. Although, this one might not be, despite his style saying otherwise.

As they began to turn and leave, the other Dissident looked at Rez and waved a paw. “Goodbye, kid. Take care of yourself.” Barker only gave a gesture.

Rez’s mood shift, replying loudly, “Bye, Cha’son! Bye, Baker!”

Charson snorted as Barker answered back. “It’s Barker. Better remember that, chum. See ya!”

Oralech waited until the Curs were out of sight before letting out a long sigh. The Cur was right for one thing: the boy _was_ lucky to end up with triumvirate members. Any other triumvirates except for three of them—or four. He headed for the boy who was being nuzzled by Iq’sa in his neck. Rez’s body shrunk as he got close. The demon’s heart sank a little.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently.

Rez nodded slowly. Oralech knelt to see possible hidden injuries but the boy jumped back as his blackened hands neared him.

“I just need to make sure you’re really alright, Rez.”

“Em fine.”

Oralech crooked a brow. “Are you sure?”

Rez puffed his cheeks and stare at his feet. Oralech held back a sigh when the boy muttered, “You ang’gry?”

“Hmm?”

“I-ee wen’Tuh missing… Jus like tha’… You ang’gry, Ori?”

Usually, Oralech would have been straightforward. Exiles know better than to hide their hurts especially when there was a willing healer around. Rez was no normal exile. He was a child first of all.

“I was, at first,” Oralech said. “But you are here now, safe and sound. I’m not angry at you.”

Rez searched him for a lie. The demon braced for the presence but it never came.

Gareph clapped his hand, breaking the awkwardness. “Hey, Rez. Iq’sa caught this huge fish for dinner. It’s tastes like salmon—way better than slit porridge.”

Rez lit up. “I wan’Na!”

Oralech gave the Savage a thankful look. He and Rez chatter for a moment when a question ticked the demon.

“Cah’n we in-vah’T Baker an’ his friends?”

The bog-crone asked, “Why, child?”

“They help-Ped me. They frien’ly. Baker haz books, too!”

The gears in the demon’s mind halted. _Invite the Dissidents? They have books? Barker can read?_ The last thing he wished was the boy finding things he liked with the wrong people, and now it happened. _Great work, Oralech._

“Can’h we, Oral?”

Oralech stared at the boy who stared back with eyes full of hope. Somewhere within him urged to fulfil his request. His other, stronger side resented. If Ashpaws finds out who he was, word will fly to Volfred. He cannot let that occur.

“No, Rez. Exiles are not to be taken lightly.” Rez’s face fell and Oralech continued. “It doesn’t matter if they can read or not. We must be wary. You don’t know what that Cur can do.”

Rez crunched his face. “Then cah’N we buy his boo-kuhs?”

“No.”

Wrong choice of words.

Rez’s fists curled around Oralech’s hair and yanked them down hard. He clambered up the demon’s head until he was in between his smaller horns before screaming his lungs out. “I wan’ books! I wan’ books! I WANT BOOOOOOKS!! I HATE YOU!!” He pounded his fist and flayed his legs repeatedly atop of the old physician’s head.

Over a dune they were about to climbed down, Barker and Charson witnessed the four exiles struggling to calm the boy down. Across other dunes and rocks popped up other exiles wondering what in the Downside was the ruckus about.

Charson looked at Barker. “Should we help them?”

“Nah,” Barker replied. “More people around will only make him fussier.”

“Well, I hate to see him like that. Him _and_ his folks.”

“Don’t bother, Charson. If the kid trusts them that’s enough. We got our own matters to worry.”

The two watched as the crone in the team successfully pull the raging boy off the demon. The man pulled him into a tight hug and carried him into their wagon with the crone tailing them. The strange imp fluttered around the demon who painfully rubbed the area around his horns before going to their moving shelter.

Something came to the Dissidents leader. “Where do you reckon they’re going?” he asked the older Cur.

Charson hummed. “Since they are pilgrims, they must be using the path for normal pilgrimage—the long way. By tomorrow they should be heading to Cairn of Ha’ub. Why?”

“I got an idea.”

.

.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
